I have a friend of mine who is now put away. He made a picture, years ago, with Rita Hayworth and he was shot in this picture in the island of Trinidad. Then a man with whom he’s had a feud for years—it is not publicly known, it is implied—they fought through the years for parts, this, that and the other. Others have told me that it was he who struck him. They found him; he was unconscious, and taken to this place, the place of no return. And that absence between that interval and it’s about ten years taken out of his life. When I called him and they let me speak to him on the telephone, he would say the same old thing, “I was wounded in Trinidad. I was wounded.” You say we’re writing fiction! He played in a picture in which he was wounded and it was in Trinidad. He was struck on the head right there in Hollywood by a man who disliked him. And now his memory goes back, he was wounded in Trinidad…can’t remember anything between, things that came before and things that came after, an interval of ten years taken out of his life. So he knows me and takes me back beyond that moment, but he can’t remember anything in between.313 ¶30